


Pinholed

by Merit



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Hays Code, Struggling actress, Struggling writer, Studios
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: They had met in New York, before decamping for Hollywood, sure of a grand adventure ahead.





	Pinholed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arbitrarily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/gifts).



The day had started brightly, sun shining through the small window in my bedroom, and when I'd finally gotten out of bed, I'd almost felt the urge to write. But I'd checked the mailbox and there were three rejection letters. And they weren't even from the biggest studios in town; it was rejection from the likes of Republic Pictures and Monogram.

When I'd first arrived in Hollywood, what a _dump_ it had been, _nothing_ like New York. I'd been lured there by the promise of a big check, more money in a month than I'd get in New York in a year editing scripts. Vanessa had been offered a contract, because everyone in New York who had pretty legs and could turn well on the stage, seemed to be getting a contract. And Vanessa had the prettiest legs anyone had ever seen, no what what you may have heard about Betty Grable.

And Hollywood had been fun; for a while. But the sun shone down endlessly, no reprieve, scarcely a proper rain cloud. But the endless parties in the Hills got _dull_ after a while, there was no actual theater, just the _movies_. The movies was all anyone could talk about, sometimes. Me and Vanessa, they'd gone over _together_ , but I stayed for Vanessa now.

I'd walked back inside, the letters falling out of my hands and onto the bare wooden floorboards. I'd been meaning to get a new rug for months, but I'd been cashing blank checks for months now too. My savings box, under my bed like a proper Midwestern grandma, had barely enough notes to cover next week's rent. I'd been counting on selling _something_. A short, something for those Rooney pics, _anything_.

My typewriter loomed over, threatening me, with words I couldn't say. More threatening than any teacher or parent. I sighed, slumping in the chair in front of it. Hours passed and I still hadn't produced anything worthwhile submitting. Not if _Republic Pictures_ was rejecting me. Oh how the shame would stain me!

When Vanessa entered a room it was always a _dramatic_ entrance. Light bulbs didn’t have to fall on red carpet, to be smashed by delicate heels, bright smiles outshining the cameras. The door snapped back, almost cracking against the wall if not for the stack of old newspapers and tatty novels, cushioning the force. I suppose I should have felt something. Those were _my_ tatty novels, flamboyant women and dashing men, written when I was still in New York.

Vanessa moved quickly, the rustle of rich silk, and fine wool trousers caressed by her thighs, her bracelets jangling. She’d taken to trousers after shooting a pic with Hepburn. She sighed heavily, before collapsing on a chair that had seen better days in the nineteenth century. It creaked and wobbled furiously under her but did not crack.  Vanessa had that sort of influence even on ancient chairs, I thought, trying to hide my smile.

Vanessa leaned back, the air shifting, the thick scent of violets and jasmine, wrapping around my throat before I had even turned to look at her. She’d picked up the perfume in Paris, sending letters daily, indiscreet and unsigned but I recognized her scrawling handwriting, the ink smudges. She rapped her nails against the armrest, knowing the noise annoyed me, wanting my attention. I ignored her. It always went better if she started the conversation.

I pondered the blank white page in front of me. It had been staring at back for me for the better part of an hour. Before that I had wasted several sheets of paper, the ink smearing, as I crumpled the paper, tossing on the floor. They had lots of friends down there. Later, when the sunlit dust motes threading their way through the air had faded with night’s curtain fall, I’d get down on the split and stained wooden floorboards and slowly straighten and smooth out every sheet. They’d be useful for odd notes, storyboarding, anything. I hadn’t sold a story in months, nigh on a year and my weak tea sat uneasily in my stomach.

“They’re ridiculous,” Vanessa said, giving up her silence easily. She reached over, touching the edge of my wrist, where the bone jutted out, thumb sweeping over the skin there. “Can you believe they just want me to scream for seventy minutes?” Her thumb rubbed at my skin there, a maddening pace and I had to breathe very carefully not to show my awakening pleasure. I crossed my legs, leaning back in my chair, skirt riding up my thighs. I wasn't wearing any stockings. I had been home alone and Los Angeles was so hot compared to New York.

“Surely you have more lines than that,” I replied, stretching my fingers, wincing as they cracked. I’d starting biting my nails again, the skin cracked, Vanessa’s nails were an immaculate red, the points sharp, filed by a plain faced woman at her studio.

“Barely,” Vanessa said, snorting indelicately. “There’s the love scene I suppose,” she added, scorn heaped on the words. “I say, _ohhhhh_ ,” her voice becoming breathy, my own pulse skipping a beat, “as a Cary or Clark or whoever they cast against me, presses my heaving bosom against his strapping chest.”   
  
“It’ll pay the bills,” I said, running my fingers over the keys of my typewriter. I had purchased it in New York, before I’d met Vanessa, and it was used and old _then_. Now I’d worn away most of the keys and typed by touch and memory alone. I knew the damn typewriter better than my own body sometimes.

“Oh,” Vanessa said, much more disappointed. “It’ll pay the bills this month and maybe next. But I need a _hit_ . This piece of garbage won’t make Warners think I’m worth keeping around. Or even better,” and her voice took a dangerous turn, “MGM thinking they want to nab me. My contract is up at the end of the year and MGM knows how to treat their stars _right_.”

“And their skin tight morality clauses,” I added darkly. Vanessa wrinkled her pretty nose and I spun around in my chair, facing her. “I’ve worked with Mayer and he’s a real beast when he wants to be. You remember what happened to Billy, don’t you? Mayer wanted him to marry some girl.”

“How could I forget?” Vanessa said, rolling her eyes. “We had him over for dinner last week and he said my curtains were atrocious. So awful, he offered to buy me some new ones!”

“Mayer stars work _hard_ ,” I added, my fingers aching, my neck sore, the acid building up at the back of my throat.

“And I don’t?” Vanessa said, pulling back. “I did seven films last year and I don’t even want to think about some of the horrors I produced on poverty row. And I’m not even talking about the good stuff like _Frankenstein_!”

Vanessa licked her lips, dark red seeping into the lines of her lips, biting down as she looked away. There a flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and wild. I suddenly felt the urge to kiss her.

I did, because it had been too long, since this morning and that had been _hours_ ago. This morning she’d smelled only of soap, her limp curls hanging around her shoulders as she stretched and moaned deliciously, my fingers curled around her stomach, my other hand occupied with bringing her to completion.

Vanessa was fire and light and she instantly pressed against me, pushing a leg between my thighs, hitching her knee up, using her superior height to her advantage. I was pressed against my rickety table, my skirt dragged up to my hips.

“You’re worth more than monster movies,” I said, between kisses, her leaving her mark against the brown skin of my neck. I couldn’t bite there, could only lightly graze the skin there with my teeth, couldn’t when she might have a photocall the next day, an interview with Hopper. “You’re Mary Shelley.”

It took a few months before Vanessa pulled back, a questioning look in her eyes. “The poet’s wife?”

“The writer,” I said imperiously, pulling back, straightening my shirt. “She _wrote Frankenstein_.”

“She knew Byron,” Vanessa said, smiling. “Mad, bad and dangerous to know. He’s a _character_. Billy could have had great fun playing him.”

“Should have this idea five years ago, before the studios got scared by Mr Hayes. It might not be something MGM will like,” I warned.

“But it could be fun,” Vanessa exclaimed, twirling around my tiny room. “More fun than screaming at a giant ape for a few hours! Something that will get my name in the papers, have Hedda and Louisa begging _me_ for an interview. I’d be playing someone important too.”

“Writers are very important,” I said, almost seriously.

Vanessa laughed, throwing her arms around me, kissing my cheek.


End file.
